


and my nightmares will have nightmares every night

by valvelocityhateclub (pinkpunkmetal)



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Gen, Murder, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), The Fabulous Killjoys (Danger Days) Are Not MCR, also a little swearing here and there but nothing major, theres also implied funpoison but you can see it as platonic, theres no actual shippy stuff, this took me weeks to write i hope yall fucking like it, writing this literally drained me emotionally you better like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkpunkmetal/pseuds/valvelocityhateclub
Summary: They were supposed to become heroes, together.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul & Jet Star & Kobra Kid & Party Poison (Danger Days), Kobra Kid & Party Poison (Danger Days)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 26





	and my nightmares will have nightmares every night

**Author's Note:**

> im finally back after like. not posting any danger days fics since march 22 so im sorry for that but i hope you're going to like this! because writing this has definitely been a wild fucking ride for me between being busy and depression (sidenote: this was very based off of how i personally experience grief so yeah. just felt like it was worth mentioning just in case i handled anything weirdly)
> 
> the title is from twin sized mattress by the front bottoms (thanks to that song for giving me the angsty energy i needed to finish this lol) 
> 
> special thanks as always to the lovely @come-liewithmybones on tumblr for helping me with this! you can find me on tumblr as well @pink-punk-metal for general & mcr content or @mikemilligram for danger days specific things and more fic updates

Poison stared up at the night sky through the window of the main room of the diner. It was cloudless and clear; they lived far enough from the city that its pollution didn’t quite stretch far enough to hide the clusters of stars that they loved to look at so much. 

Everything was quiet, still, the only sound to be heard was the one of their own soft breathing and the muffled snoring coming from one of the bedrooms, and saying that it was odd for a place like the desert, where someone was always awake, would be nothing but a gross understatement. There was always someone or something making noise, no matter how far out in the desert you were - a killjoy, random tumbleweeds wandering around in the night, wild animals, even bugs, but that night the whole world seemed to be dead. Poison didn’t have it in themself to question it too much, though.

They were alone. Everyone else was fast asleep in their beds. they assumed so, at least, but nothing said otherwise - so they had slipped out of their bed as silently and carefully as they could and walked to the living room to be alone with their thoughts. 

They couldn’t sleep. No matter how exhausted and drained and worn out they were. They didn’t even want to sleep, if they had to be honest, the horrifying, blood chilling image of dead bodies and gore and their own pain seemed to be permanently stuck behind their eyelids, and it wouldn’t go away no matter what they did, and not thinking about it only seemed to make it stronger and they didn't want to relive that.

Not that being awake was that big of a change, but at least they could try to fight it, right? 

They sat on the floor, their injured leg stretched out in front of them on the cold tile floor, the makeshift cane they used for support abandoned somewhere near them, the blanket - the nice one, the one without holes or weird stains on it - they had wrapped around their shoulders a little earlier in a futile attempt to comfort themself even a little barely keeping them warm enough.

They didn’t care, though, and even if they did they couldn’t do anything about it, since their jacket and good shirt were too messed up to do anything with them except throw them away - blood was hard to get out of fabric, after all, wasn’t it? - and new sturdy clothes were hard to find. They shivered slightly, but didn’t move at all.

It had been three days. 

Three days. It had only been three days and they should’ve been nothing but a speck of dust in the infinitely vast fabric of time, and for some they were - nothing but three simple days, much like every other group of three days they had experienced outside of the city - but to Poison it had been a lifetime. 

Numbness had taken over every part of them - they didn’t eat, or sleep, most nights, and they were glad that they weren’t alone and that someone still cared about them enough to bring them water or they would’ve probably just let themself die of dehydration by now - and they couldn’t even remember the last time they felt happy, or at ease, and not in pain, and it had only been three days but those days were enough to wipe every silver of joy, no matter how small, from their entire existence. 

They tried hard not to think about it, but how could they? How could they when their entire world had crumbled down around them, and they were staring at its broken down, tattered remains - metaphorical shattered glass and gutted, burnt down buildings that crumbled under their very own weight, much like Poison did after what had happened. 

Their little brother was dead.

Dead. Dusted. Gone forever. Murdered by the corporation he had tried so hard to escape, by that same corporation he had fought against for years. Killed because he was seen as a nuisance, something that went against its hellish view of perfection, where everything that was deemed flawed and unconventional had to be replaced or wiped out.

They buried their face into their hands. They wanted to scream, to cry and yell and rip everything apart, including themself, until they were nothing, just to forget everything and finally live in peace again, wherever their soul would end up in the afterlife - and it was so unfair. It was so unfair, they were supposed to make it out of the city, in the desert and live and thrive and they were supposed to become heroes, together, like they had dreamed about for years. They were supposed to live their own life, free, away from all of those that had tried to subdue them, away from a bleak life of working as slaves to a corporation that never cared about them anyway. They were supposed to become legends, a loud, bold fuck you to eveyone who stood in their way. 

They were supposed to become heroes, together. 

It was only a simple mission. Take the car, drive a couple of zones down to zone one, meet up with some city people to pick up some food. No one was supposed to get hurt. He shouldn’t have died and they shouldn’t have gotten injured- and it was foolish of both of them to underestimatethe mission, to let their guard down, because now Kobra was dead and everyone else in his life, Poison themself specifically, was left alone, without him, trying to fill the void he had left behind; and oh how they wish they hadn’t been so stupid, how they wish they could’ve done something to prevent him getting hurt, or to help him, even if it meant dying for him.

They shivered again, and curled up in their blanket more. It was getting later and later, and it must’ve been something like two in the morning, but they didn’t want to go back to bed with Ghoul to be scolded and bitched at for leaving him alone again and staying up all night - like seriously, they couldn’t sleep anyway, why did where they decided to sit and cry to themself fucking matter anyway? It wasn’t as if being in bed would make them feel better or make them forget about his brother bleeding out in his arms.

They couldn’t remember his last moments very clearly - and they were almost glad that they couldn’t - but they remember him falling to his knees, his hands painted bright red with his own blood. They remember him screaming in pain, clutching desperately at himself as he fell into the sand one last time, only to never get up again. They remember fighting through their own pain struggling to stay upright and not double over and fall onto the ground from how dizzy they were. 

He was never supposed to die. It was only a simple mission - an errand, almost, something so simple and overly mundane that even the dumbest of the dumbest would’ve been fine. 

They remember helping him. Kneeling next to him, pressing down on his wounds, on the middle of his chest, frantically looking for something to wrap them up. They remember their own hands splattered with his blood, and their own. They remember the sand around them becoming muddy and dark, the metallic smell becoming almost unbearable the more time went on. 

They remember him pale and shaking, his skin cold to the touch, his breathing uneven and rushed, pained. They remember him wide-eyed, confused, lost, as he tried to piece together what had happened, barely talking, his words slurring, his eyes struggling to stay open.

His last words. 

“What’s happening? I don’t wanna die, please, no! Party, please, no” 

The moment he had stopped breathing. They remember calling his name, begging, pleading for him to wake up. Hoping for it all to be just a bad dream, a nightmare, or some kind of sick, twisted joke someone had pulled on them to hurt them. 

They had rested their head on his shoulder, without caring about the fact that his clothing was still wet with blood and that it was staining their face, and they had held him closer, just like they did when they were kids. Just like they did when he was scared. 

He wasn’t breathing anymore. 

He wouldn’t breathe anymore.

They didn’t know how long they had stayed just like that, clinging to his lifeless body - how long they had stayed still, sobbing silently into his shoulder, not making a sound, or moving at all. Was it seconds, or was it days? Years, even?

Their little brother was dead, gone forever, and nothing they nor anyone else could do would bring him back. 

It had all come down crashing on them in an instant. He hadn’t just died - like he had died whenever they hadn’t seen him in a while and their mind ran wild with every possible way he could’ve been hurt, or how he had died whenever he disappeared for days to be by himself; even they knew that he wasn’t gone, that he hadn’t died, even through the worry and hurt and anxiety.

He had died. 

He had died, right there, in their arms, his mask still on, his gun - the one they had painted bright red, his favorite color - still clutched firmly in his right hand, the silver necklace he always wore still around his neck, the dog tags streaked with blood. 

They remember themself shaking, tears spilling out from their eyes down onto Kobra’s shirt, and all they had known in that moment was sorrow. Big and overwhelming, crushing them with its weight until they couldn’t feel anything at all except for it - everything had seemed far away, out of focus, blurry. It had been them, and him, alone, and they knew they had to get away from there soon but they seemed to be stuck, anchored to the ground, and they couldn’t have moved even if they had tried to. 

They couldn't comprehend how the world hadn’t just stopped turning altogether the moment that he had taken his last breath, how it hadn’t all just broken down and disappeared forever only to be a distant, faded memory, how it hadn’t all just died with him - how they hadn’t died with him. 

They had stood there until their knees had gone numb, and their head had been screaming in pain and their skin had started burning, until the bullet hole in their thigh couldn’t be just ignored anymore. 

Poison couldn’t remember much of what had happened after that - they remember someone pulling them away from him. They hadn’t recognized them, at first, but it had been Jet. Everything else had felt like a blank; complete nothingness, and they had almost felt as if they had been dreaming. 

They wished they had. They wish they could’ve just woken up then, in their bed, Ghoul next to them, and Kobra sleeping in the room next to them; they would have walked out of bed, and woken him up, and they would have talked, and he would’ve been there, right in front of them, safe, and alive, and he would’ve held them, and it would have been just a dream. 

They vaguely remembered slipping his mask into a mailbox - the one he had always liked the design of, the one that the killjoys that had come before them had covered in fake flowers of every color and painted with bright neon yellows and pinks. They remember saying goodbye, a simple “see you later” from them. They remember Jet praying silently to The Witch in the backseat of the trans am as they headed back to the diner. 

Poison watched as the first rays of sunshine began to spill into the room, their golden hues slowly lighting up what was previously concealed by darkness. Another day had begun, officially making it three days and four nights since the news that the Kobra Kid had died had been broadcasted to everyone in the zones, since The Fabulous Four became a trio. 

They picked up their cane, and made their way back to their bedroom, where they would pretend nothing had happened, if someone dared to ask them. 

They were supposed to become heroes, together.


End file.
